


the price of childhood

by thevodkathief



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Blood and Gore, Character Bashing, Character Death, Corpse Desecration, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drabble, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Toby Smith | Tubbo Has Horns, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:34:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29168916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thevodkathief/pseuds/thevodkathief
Summary: Theseus breaks the terms of his banishment and returns to L'manberg, to stay this time.Technoblade witnesses the aftermath.
Relationships: all gen-
Kudos: 27





	the price of childhood

The wounds were oozing noiselessly from the still warm corpses. Torn sides and slit throats gaping towards the cloudless sky, the cobblestone path undiscernable beneath the blood pools. 

Among the semi-rusted red tinted landscape, the pulsing glow of enchanted armour stood out. Some of it untarnished even as their wearers lay contorted and splintered.

There was a stillness in the air. A chapter finally coming to a close. A country with too many names and not enough luck, so much knowledge but not enough wisdom. The underdog that ,eventually, still lost. 

Technoblade pondered this as his lumbering steps broke through the quiet of the battlefield. Netherrite boots sticking to the viscera soaked ground and coming free with a gory squelch.

"This was always how it was going to end, but I still had hope" he whispered, an unusual deference in his tone; among the carcasses were his allies after all. He spins on his heel, the voices alarm all the warning he receives as an axe buries itself in his shield. He's pushed back from the impact, his tusks ,cracked as they are, fog slightly at the force of his breath on the next exhale. AttackRunHideWHY ARE YOU STILL HERE?!

His opponents eyes should be wild, alive with adrenaline that builds on each fallen enemy; Technoblade has seen it often enough,felt it often enough. A high unlike any other, fuelling the next strike and making victory worth any price. Instead, vacant scleras oscillate between Techno and the field of dead bodies. Any color those eyes once held had become desaturated and murky, harbouring nothing of the person he once knew.

Hair matted and flat, clothes torn and burnt at the hems, a sleeve hanging on seemingly by a thread. There are bandages poking through his shirt, hastily done some time ago, when it still mattered. His stance is sloppy, uneven, but Techno knows he's always been quick on his feet. His movement is janky, like those faceless wooden marionettes Techno used to scare Wilbur with as kids. Yet the hold on the axe is unyielding as its wrenched from Techno's shield, breaking it. Faint glittering of a strength potion following the movement. 

"This wont fix anything, Theseus" Techno cautioned, battle weary and sapped for energy, the only one remaining. 

There was no indication that the words even registered. 

The two fell into a clash of parry's and strikes. Familiar motions wrought with desperate halfsteps performed by near strangers. Hateful imitations of the careful way in which these moves were taught, almost a lifetime ago. Technoblade staggers on a fractured helmet, adorning a pulp of white bone, red viscera, and yellow feathers. He fails to block the next strike and his opponent draws so close that techno can smell the rotting leaves and viscous ozone from the nether that sinks into the air around him. 

Finally, he speaks, "didn't you teach me to never let an enemy get in close?" the words are punctuated by techos sharp inhale, a squeal of pain, and surprise as a poison tipped arrow is forced between his armour plates.

A golden glimmering crown falls to the ground accompanied by the sound of metal on stone. 

The crown sits heavy on his head, nestled between dirtied blond mats of hair. Theseus sits, and waits. Takes in the sights he missed so dearly, turning his head slowly as to not jostle the pair of small, pointed cream horns lovingly bound to each side of the crown. A single fleck of blood remains on the base of them, it was a hassle cutting them out of the corpse without scratching them to much but he knows that he needed to get it right. For tubbo. 

Nothing can hurt either of them now, not even each other. The realisation curls around his throat, prompting a laugh to escape him. Theseus sits on his throne a king. Not a prince, a right hand, an exile-ee, or a brother but a king. It finally feels real. No more haze of exile or dream's lessons in repentance. 

After all, here, on Eret's bloodied throne in front of his friends and betrayers, nothing can hurt him ever again.


End file.
